Murder Misread (22 page)

The woman who answered was
a tired-looking thirty-five, blonde, in jeans and a pink
sweatshirt. “Mrs. Baker?” Maggie asked.

“
Yes?” She brushed a wisp
of hair from her forehead.

“
I’m Maggie Ryan. You’re
Jill Baker’s mother?”

“
That’s right.” She stood
very still. “Is there a problem?”

“
No, not at all. We’re
doing a follow-up interview of children who were in Professor
Bickford’s creativity study a couple of years ago. Sorry we weren’t
able to reach you in advance. But if Jill’s here, we’d like to talk
to her for five or ten minutes.”

“
Oh, yes.” The woman
relaxed. “Come on in. I’m Barbara Baker. I just got home myself so
everything’s a mess right now. But you work too, obviously. So you
know how it is.” She waved them into the kitchen and called down a
hall, “Jill! Come here a minute! Visitors!” She rejoined them and
asked, “Coffee?”

“
Love some,” said Maggie.
She’d taken a pad from her briefcase and looked very much the
earnest researcher.

Barbara Baker poured two
mugs from a pot plugged into the range outlet, handed them to Anne
and Maggie, and picked up a third mug that was already sitting next
to the sink. “What’s this follow-up about?”

“
We’re just checking what
the children remember. We’ll do a few sample interviews and if they
look interesting there may be another full-fledged study.” Maggie
paused to look at the door. A coltish girl of about twelve was
entering, wearing jeans and a powder-blue sweatshirt. She was
blonde like her mother, with long-lashed blue eyes. She was almost
as tall as her mother too, but moved awkwardly, not yet at home in
her newly leggy body.

Barbara Baker was leaning
against the sink counter. She said, “These people have come to ask
you about that project you helped with a couple of years ago. At
the university. You remember, the one where you told crazy
stories?”

“
Yeah?” Jill didn’t seem
antagonistic, just cautious.

Maggie said, “I’m Maggie
and this is Anne. We just wanted to see what kids remember about
their stories after two years. That’s a pretty long
time.”

“
Yeah,” Jill agreed. She
flopped down in one of the breakfast chairs and drew up one leg.
“It’s like a memory test?”

“
More like a game. No
grades,” Maggie reassured her.

“
What am I supposed to
remember?”

“
The stories you
told.”

“
You’ll be sorry,” Barbara
Baker warned. She brought her mug to the table and sat in the
fourth chair, giving her daughter’s hair an affectionate tousle as
she passed. “This one’s got a crazy imagination.”

“
Well, that’s exactly what
we’re looking for,” Maggie said. “Jill, can you tell us the
stories?”

“
Well, I told one about
when I was a clown and had a pet chicken,” Jill began. She was
hugging her knee, glancing up occasionally to check Maggie and
Anne’s reactions. “We traveled all over the world and came to
Laconia. Then we went to the fairgrounds and built a big rocket for
the moon. But we didn’t have enough money for gasoline.”

Barbara laughed. “That
part isn’t imagination! We got stuck that way a couple of years
ago. Jill’s father bounced a child support check and there we were,
overdrawn too.”

“
So what did you and the
chicken do?” Maggie asked Jill.

“
We both got jobs at the
mall. But nobody wanted to buy coffee from a chicken, you know? So
I got out my clown make-up and made the chicken look like an
American eagle. And then everybody felt patriotic and bought
coffee. And so we got to go to the moon. I forget how.” Jill
frowned at the table. “There was some more stuff but I
forget.”

“
That’s okay. It’s a great
story,” Maggie said. “You’ve got a good memory. That was two years
ago.”

“
Tell the other one,”
Barbara urged. “About the shark.”

A shadow crossed Jill’s
face. “I don’t like that one.”

“
You
know what happened? She went off to see
Jaws
with her friends and it scared
her to death,” her mother explained. “She was, what, nine years
old. So she made up a story about it. But she’s never liked
it.”

Maggie said, “You don’t
have to tell us, Jill. But I’d love to hear it, if you’re
willing.”

Jill was silent a moment,
hugging her leg, mouth pressed against her knee. Then she said
rapidly, “I went in a room and there was a man with sunglasses and
a mustache and a dark slicker and an orange life jacket. I got in a
boat. And the water was splashing outside the boat and a shark
came. The man said, quick, you’re wearing pink, that’s what sharks
like. So he took my things and showed me how to lie down in the
bottom of the boat where the shark couldn’t see me.” Her voice was
flat, staccato. “And I wanted to see the shark but I didn’t want to
stand up. So he took out my eyeball and held it up over the edge of
the boat, and then I could see the water and the shark snapping its
teeth. Like looking through the window. And he told me to yell the
magic words and the shark would leave. I didn’t like the magic
words but I was scared. So I yelled, and the shark went away, and
he put my eyeball back in. And I got out of the boat and came
home.”

Anne was shaken. No wonder
Tal had brooded over this child’s imagination.

Maggie’s jaw had
tightened. “Thanks, Jill,” she said soberly. “I agree with you. The
first story is more fun. But I’m really glad you remembered the
other one too.”

“
Didn’t forget a thing,”
said Barbara proudly. “But you know, she still won’t wear pink. And
she looks so pretty in it.”

“
Dumb color,” Jill
muttered with a resentful look at her mother.

“
Yeah, she probably made
up that story just so she could throw out her pink clothes.”
Barbara laughed. “Wish she’d waited till she was my size. I’d take
them!”

Anne could see that
Barbara was trying to lighten her daughter’s mood.

“
Were there other stories,
Jill?” Maggie asked.

“
No, we only had time for
two. There was something else, like a test we took. Lots of
questions. But I don’t remember what they were.”

“
That’s okay, we don’t
need that. One other thing.” Maggie pulled out the Christmas party
photo. “Do you remember any of these people?”

Jill studied it seriously.
“This one’s Bart,” she said, pointing. “I told the stories to him.
And this one’s Tal. I saw him after, in the hall, and he wondered
why I was crying and I said it was a scary story about sharks. And
he said yes, shark stories were very scary. But he said scary
stories could be good, if they got us to think about how to be
ready if scary things really happened.” She frowned at her upraised
knee.

“
Do you know anyone else
in the picture?” Maggie asked.

“
No.”

“
The man in the
slicker?”

Jill glanced back at the
snapshot. “No.” Then the blue eyes flicked up at Maggie’s in alarm.
“I mean, he’s not real.”

“
Right,” said Maggie.
“Well, that’s all. Thank you, Jill, you really helped
us.”

“
Sure.” They all walked to
the door.

“
Oh, Jill!” Maggie was
halfway to the driveway, “Could you show me your bike a minute? My
daughter wants one and I’d like to know about Raleighs. What you
like and what you don’t like.”

“
Okay.” Jill joined her in
the garage.

Anne got out a Gauloise.
“Do you want a cigarette?” she asked Barbara.

“
Thanks, no. But you go
ahead. Will you tell us the results of this follow-up
study?”

It took Anne a second to
remember that they were supposed to be working on a new phase of
Bart’s study. “Of course,” she said, and added, “although it may
not get very far. This is very preliminary, as you can
see.”

“
Yes.”

“
Your daughter is
delightful. She must be a joy to you.”

“
Oh, yes.” Barbara Baker
smiled. “A joy and an exasperation. She does have a wild
imagination. You suppose that’s because her father left?” She
looked suddenly vulnerable.

“
Who knows?” Anne said.
She wanted to comfort Barbara. Even with an enthusiastic partner
like Tal, mothering was filled with doubt and worries. “Probably
she’s just a bright girl. Maybe a genius.”

“
Wish her grades showed
that!” Barbara smoothed back some stray wisps of blonde hair. “She
becomes a teenager next year.”

“
Good luck!” said Anne
sincerely. “But she seems a level-headed girl. And it’s possible to
survive it. My daughter and I did.”

“
I’m glad to hear
that.”

Maggie had given Jill’s
shoulders a friendly squeeze and walked up the driveway. “Hey,
let’s go!” she called from the driver’s side of the Camaro. “Thanks
again, Barbara!”

“
Sure.”

Anne climbed into the
passenger seat and mashed her cigarette into the ashtray. She waved
at Barbara and Jill as they backed out. Turning from the
subdivision toward Minerva Creek, she asked, “What did you and Jill
have to say to each other back there?”

Maggie glanced at her
briefly, her blue eyes shadowed. “I told her I knew the shark story
really happened. But I told her she was right, it was better if her
mother and other people thought it was just a story.”

“
The shark story? Are you
crazy?” Anne peered at Maggie suspiciously. “Boats inside rooms and
removable eyeballs? Jill just saw that awful film and made up a
good story for herself. Or had a nightmare and recounted
that.”

Maggie sighed as she
turned the Camaro into the narrow creek road. “I hope you’re right,
Anne. I hope to God you’re right.”

13

By four-thirty Charlie had
the printer working again. He replaced its housing almost
regretfully. It had been good to focus on a different kind of
problem. A solvable problem. He slid the printer into its place on
the counter and locked the room behind him. Climbing the stairs, he
made himself focus on tasks he still had to do: picking up his
mail, checking with Gary to see if any problems had arisen with the
coding of the fourth study.

He stopped in the main
office to check his mailbox and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Sergeant Hines was propped against the windowsill, his notebook
out, talking to Cindy. When Charlie entered he smiled. “Professor
Fielding! Just the man I want to see!”

“
Oh. Okay.” Charlie paused
awkwardly at the mailroom door and cast a quick glance at Cindy.
What kind of tales had she been inventing now? And where was
Walensky? Had he abandoned the field to Hines? Well, Hines alone
might be better than having two warring policemen at
once.

Hines shifted smoothly to
his feet. “If you can talk to me now, we can go to your
office.”

“
Okay. I just came for my
mail.” At the policeman’s nod, Charlie pulled out the half-dozen
items in his pigeonhole.

“
You got a big box too,”
Cindy informed him. “I had the guy put it in your
office.”

“
Thanks,” said Charlie.
“Probably the videotapes I ordered.” He looked at Hines.
“Ready?”

“
Yeah, let’s get this over
with. Thanks, Mrs. Phelps,” he added to Cindy.

All the well-being Charlie
had felt while repairing the printer had evaporated. He could feel
his neck muscles clenching, his legs stiffening. What a nightmare
this was! The horror of Tal’s death, plus the damned awkwardness
because he’d lost track of his memo book.

He unlocked his office.
Cindy was right; there was a big box on his desk. He tossed his
mail down beside it, pulled his chair out from behind it so he
could see Hines, and gestured at the other chair. “How can I help
you?”

The big man sat down,
pulled out his notebook, and found his pencil. Charlie wondered
where Porter was. Probably back at the police station running FBI
checks on everyone, or trying to match fingerprints to unsolved
murders, or…. Hines cleared his throat and Charlie brought himself
back to reality. The sergeant had leaned back in the oak chair,
long legs extended before him, notebook on his thigh. He said,
“I’ve just got a few questions. Earlier today you mentioned Nora
Peterson’s gun. Tell me about it.”

“
I don’t know much about
it.” Hines didn’t respond, merely looked up at him expectantly, his
pencil still poised. Charlie explained, “I only know about it
because last year after that student threatened her, she told us
all that she was going to buy a gun.”

“
You never saw
it?”

“
Well, in fact, she showed
it to us once not long after. Several of us were in the hall and
the subject came up. Someone asked about it. Bart, I guess,
Professor Bickford. And she brought it out. But I didn’t look at it
very closely. I don’t like guns much.” He realized suddenly that
Hines doubtless was carrying a gun at this very moment, so he added
hastily, “Except of course the police should have them.”